


His Name is Never Heard

by mandykaysfic



Series: Holosex [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Holodeck Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandykaysfic/pseuds/mandykaysfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor finds someone else on Voyager who doesn’t have a name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Name is Never Heard

Sandrine's was quiet. Tom Paris played yet another game of pool against Gaunt Gary while Ricky watched. Sandrine polished glasses behind the bar. In a shadowy corner the Doctor sat alone at a table for two. The holographic gigolo, finding no flesh and blood crew members to hit on, slid onto the chair opposite the Doctor. “How goes it, mon ami?” he enquired.

The Doctor didn't answer. 

“Ah, you wish to be alone. I will go then.” He pushed his chair back.

“Don't. Stay. I'd like to ask you something,” said the Doctor suddenly and waited for the gigolo to get comfortable again. “You interact with many of the crew on a personal level. How do you cope in those... intimate situations without having a name?”

“It is different for me. They don’t need or want my name to call out in the throes of passion. A generic deity or group of deities is often all they use.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows.

“You know – gods, spirits, prophets, or the singular God, Jesus, Kahless. Usually it’s not even that; just plain ‘Fuck!’ or ‘Oh, yeah!’ is more common. Maybe it’s just the basic instructions - more, harder, softer, ooh just there. They’re not looking for a relationship. I’m a just a gigolo, a nameless fuck. An outlet for their lust, or way to relieve some stress.” He snorted. “I know when they are lonely, or whether they’ve had a row, by the other names they let slip, and by how they use me.”

“You’re a cynic then. But how do you feel about that? Do you ever wish it were a little more…personal?”

“I’m not programmed for that. I have no feelings one way or the other. I have access to a database of conversational topics should I be required to carry on a conversation, but my main function is to provide sexual satisfaction, and I do.” The gigolo examined the Doctor’s features. “Forget this conversation. Your name, or lack of one is not important, and neither is mine. I know what you want. Come.”

“But, I’m a hologram, like you. I don’t want -,”

“Yes. You do. Come,” he repeated and stood. 

The Doctor hesitated. “But you’re a gigolo. By definition you have sex with women, for money.”

“Mr Paris, he has altered my programming. I can have sex with anyone, any species,” he paused and added significantly, “holograms. I am the best; half French, half Daliwakan. You’re a doctor, you know what that means. Come.” Sensing the Doctor was close to capitulation he intensified his French accent and held out his hand. “Come for no other reason than I want you. You would be the first that I would choose for myself.” 

It was a good reason. 

The gigolo’s room was on the first floor. It was old-fashioned, furnished with a wash stand of polished oak in one corner. The four-poster bed was oak as well, its linens clean and fresh-smelling. The afternoon light streamed in through window, softened by the net curtains. The EMH headed straight over to the window. He twitched the curtains and peered out onto the street. Human and aliens hurried about their business. He turned back to the gigolo and waited. 

“A kiss is a good place to start, no?” The gigolo grasped the Doctor’s hands and pulled him close.

The Doctor licked his lips, but an understanding laugh sounded next to his ear. “There is no rush, my friend,” and then his hands were raised he felt warm lips on the back of his fingers. They were softer than they looked, touching several fingers at once to start with, one hand and then the other, and then they were pressed against each finger in turn. He badly wished for a pulse when his hands were turned up and the same warmth touched his wrists and then his palms. 

“It is the sense of touch that is so important, kinesthetics too, and yours no doubt would be exceptional,” murmured the gigolo into the Doctor’s hands, and then licked across his wrist, tracing the realistic veins until he reached the cuff he’d pushed back as far as it would go. “Don’t analyze, just feel,” he instructed and gently nipped just beneath the Doc’s little finger. 

As the gigolo nuzzled his neck, the Doctor found some things to do with his hands, sliding the jacket from the other hologram’s slim shoulders. As the gigolo shrugged himself free, the Doctor frowned. 

“What is it, mon brave?” The gigolo mostly stuck to French endearments. He tried unsuccessfully to smooth the Doctor’s frown with his fingers.

“My uniform is part of my matrix. I can undress you, but you can’t undress me.”

“So make the alterations. Tell the computer what you wish to wear. She will oblige.” 

The Doctor found it difficult to concentrate as the gigolo kissed his way along his jaw and around his ear. He shivered as a paroxysm of desire shot through him when a wet tongue thrust delicately into his ear. He managed to request an outfit similar to the gigolo’s own and then not one to stay passive he threaded his hands into the gigolo’s hair and took some control of their kiss. There was no need to breathe, and yet the sensation of breath was there when appropriate, as was the rise and fall of holographic chests. 

Smoothly, the gigolo bared the Doctor’s chest; he was not programmed to fumble. The jacket and shirt fell to the floor and his own shirt joined them. His skin was a natural light olive shade. His chest was hairless, his nasal ridge echoed along the length of his breast bone and his nipples were neither too big nor too small. His shape was average, his build a little narrower than the Doctor’s although they were practically of a height. His fingers stroked the Doctor’s chest, testing for human-like reactions. He was relieved when he found them to be there. While he knew he was more than capable of making love to only the doctor’s head and hands should they have proved the only places his matrix had sensations, he was pleased for the doctor’s sake he could do so much more.

As if to compensate for the Doctor's balding head, his chest hair had been programmed quite thick and still dark. The Doctor never knew if that had been in Lewis Zimmerman's original template or whether Tom Paris, Harry Kim or B'Elanna Torres, the three who most often worked on his matrix, had added it on some whim of their own. In any case, it was irrelevant as the gigolo’s fingers played with it as he nuzzled into the Doctor’s throat. His own fingers wandered over the gigolo’s torso. He mentally counted ribs, traced muscles. He murmured something about the lateral spinothalamic tract and then squawked in pain when his left nipple was bitten rather sharply.

“I do not think that was a Latin endearment, my friend. I was right; you do need this. You are supposed to be making love, not conducting a medical examination. Forget yourself for the next while. No anatomy, no physiology. Just feel.” The gigolo had deftly removed the rest of the Doctor’s clothes while he spoke, and now settled him onto the bed on his stomach. He dealt with the remainder of his own clothing equally expediently and chose a pleasntly scented massage oil from his collection. 

 

“You need to turn over now,” the gigolo instructed some time later, when the Doctor’s back had been thoroughly massaged from the soles of his feet to the top of his skull.

“Mmm,” the doctor agreed and stayed where he was.

The gigolo laughed softly and nudged him until he moved. This time he started with the Doctor’s hands, but instead of re-oiling his hands and commencing with firm strokes to the palm and thumb pads, he lifted the first hand to his mouth and proceeded to once more worship it with his lips and his teeth and his tongue before briefly massaging it with the oil. He made his way up the forearm and into the crook of the Doctor’s elbow, following a similar pattern. He spent only a little time in the Doctor’s armpit. The lack of scent unexpectedly jarred with the expectations of his own programming and for the other side, he made sure he massaged some of the oil in first. The faint smell of almonds worked perfectly and together they found the area to be quite an erogenous zone. 

He made sure he used enough oil lower down on the doctor’s body. All of the normal humanoid physiological reactions were there too, complete to the small amount of fluid that he was pleased had been programmed with a realistic flavor when he finally took the Doctor’s cock in his mouth. He briefly wondered whether he should mention to the Doctor about getting a musky body odor added to his matrix, but the doctor’s groan of pleasure reminded him to attend to what he was doing, and the gigolo set about using all of his best tricks to arouse the Doctor to maximum. They were both pleased when he found the Doctor’s holographic prostate, and then with none of the physical restraints that his apparent age may have caused, the gigolo lifted the Doctor’s legs over his shoulders and entered him.

“Is this where I cry out to the deities?” Not needing oxygen meant there was no hamper to clear speech. The Doctor grinned in response when the gigolo laughed and lost his perfect rhythm for a moment. “Maybe we do need those deities after all.”

“Perhaps,” and the gigolo promptly cried out, first in Daliwakan and then French.

“Oh, fuck, yes, more,” put in the Doctor.

“No, no! With emotion, like the opera, yes? Here -,” and he wrapped one hand around the Doctor’s cock and fisted it in time with his thrusts.

“Oh, fuck! Yeah! That’s it – like that!” The rest degenerated into indecipherable moans.

The gigolo smiled and, reading the Doctor as easily as any of his flesh and blood partners, intensified his efforts until the Doctor orgasmed first then he allowed himself to follow on quickly.

 

The Doctor stood, once more attired in his uniform. The gigolo had put on everything except his jacket. “So, mon ami, you did not need my name, I did not need yours, but know that I meant it when I said you were not ‘just another nameless fuck’ for me. What’s in a name? That which we would call a rose…”

“By any other name would smell as sweet,” finished the Doctor and he made a noise of agreement, and he left, with one section of his matrix still contemplating Leonardo, Louis and Lewis.

 

END


End file.
